


Slipping Away

by koalawhisperer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Heartbreak, I Made Myself Cry, Loss, M/M, Old Age, Retirementlock, might want to have kleenex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 02:26:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koalawhisperer/pseuds/koalawhisperer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a warm, sunny, spring day in Sussex, yet the atmosphere in the tiny cottage belonging to Sherlock and John Watson-Holmes was a stark contrast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slipping Away

**Author's Note:**

> This was incredibly cathartic for me, as I put much of my own recent loss into this. I had to stop writing it a few times just because I was crying.

It was a warm, sunny, spring day in Sussex, yet the atmosphere in the tiny cottage belonging to Sherlock and John Watson-Holmes was a stark contrast. The elderly detective hadn't gotten out of bed in days, barely able to find the strength to sit up. His voice was as weak as his body, no longer the deep, booming baritone that John had grown to love. And he was small, so small. Sherlock had always been a thin, bony man, like his father, but he was almost skeletal now. His skin was stretched across his bones, spotted and wrinkled with age. The thick curls that had once been a deep, rich black were now white and thin, a mere shadow of what they'd been. Sherlock, for all it seemed, was dying. Yet John still held on to hope that his Sherlock would recover, that one day they'd be able to do the things they loved again.

That particular day found John, as always, sitting by the bed he shared with his husband. John also showed signs of age. He was forced to walk with a cane and wear glasses, and he'd lost the muscle tone he'd developed during his youth. His once sandy blond hair was now a snowy white, cut short against his head. As his father had, John walked with a stoop because of a bad case of arthritis he'd developed as he'd entered his elderly years. His skin was dotted with spots and wrinkles, giving him a grandfatherly sort of look. But now, all of that, all of John's personal aches and pains were forgotten as he sat by his husband's bedside, watching him take shallow breaths as he prayed to whatever deity would listen for the miracle. Just one more miracle, Sherlock. For me. Please. John had done that once before, and it had worked, so why wouldn't it work again?

Sherlock looked over at John with what he could muster of a smile. It seemed as though every move he made drained the once vivacious detective. Getting out of bed was impossible now, and sitting up required John to use every bit of his strength to pull Sherlock up. In fact, Sherlock hadn't even done that in days, but still John clung to every shred of hope, every tiny sign of improvement. Just days ago, Sherlock had managed to keep ice cream down. He'd complained about the strawberry being 'too rich'. Typical Sherlock, he'd never liked desserts that were overly sweet. That had to be a sign, right? He'd let John wash his hair a few weeks ago, too. He was going to get better, John just knew it. Yet for every small victory, there seemed to be one step back. Sherlock's breathing grew more and more laboured, and his eyes grew dimmer and dimmer as his body began to shut down. John could see it happening, he'd seen it with many patients during his medical career. He'd seen death many, many times, both violent and peaceful, but that didn't seem to prepare him for this. Nothing, he'd been told, could prepare him for the loss of someone he loved so dearly. But it couldn't happen to Sherlock. Not his Sherlock, the man who had always seemed to somehow be above such mortal things as death.

“I – I think I'm going to steal a kiss,” John tried to joke, his voice breaking despite the weak smile on his face. “Is that okay?”

Sherlock only made a soft sound and shook his head once, side to side, very subtly.

“It's not?” John replied, trying his best to keep the situation playful despite the fact that his heart was being torn into shreds with every passing second.. “I'm going to do it anyway.”

John leaned in and placed a kiss on Sherlock's forehead, smiling down at him before resuming his place on the bed. And, as though by some miracle, Sherlock moved. He reached his hand over, very slowly, and covered John's with it. John knew he had to be strong, that this had been in the shadows ever since Sherlock had become bedridden, but he couldn't help it. He knew that this was Sherlock's way of saying that everything was okay since he hadn't spoken a word in days. John hung his head and let the tears stream down his face, refusing to sob. He couldn't upset Sherlock, but he'd been holding all of this pain, all of this anguish in for that very reason. He knew it was time. He had to let go. Despite all of the little victories, all of the signs, Sherlock wasn't going to improve.

“Please,” John whispered, voice barely audible. “It's okay. Let go, love. I'll see you soon, I promise. I'll be okay here. I – Hamish is nearby, you know. He'll come visit me. Just let go. Please don't fight. You're so tired...”

John kept at this for who knew how long, encouraging Sherlock to let go. It would be selfish not to do that, not when his husband was clearly tired of fighting. He would cry and cry and cry, only stopping when his eyes were no longer able to produce tears. John was losing a big part of himself, the part of himself that had made him complete. He knew nothing would be the same once Sherlock took his last breath and closed his eyes. He would be incomplete, a part of his heart painfully removed and left with Sherlock.

Day became afternoon. John didn't eat. Didn't sleep.

Afternoon became night. John was exhausted, both physically and mentally. Sherlock was a fighter up until the end, it seemed. Typical stubborn Sherlock, never giving in until he absolutely had to. He decided to try one last thing, leaning in and whispering softly to Sherlock, almost as though he were afraid that someone would hear him. He took a deep breath and braced himself, swallowing down the growing lump in his throat.

“Sherlock, my love. The light of my life. My soulmate. I love you so much. It's all okay now. You can let go. I know you're so tired. So, so tired. We had a good, happy life togetehr, and we'll get an eternal one soon. Just let go...”

It wasn't long before Sherlock did just that. He gave one last weak puff of a breath and just...stopped breathing as his heart gave one last beat. Sherlock Holmes, dead of old age. That had always been the thing he'd least expected, but in the end, that's what had done it. Knowing that he was now completely alone, John buried his face in his hands and cried, sobs wracking his body until a wave of nausea washed over him. His Sherlock was gone. His soulmate was gone. John would see him again, yes, but the rest of his life here on Earth was going to be a lonely one. He couldn't ask Hamish to move back in, not when the boy had a life of his own now. A family of his own. John was truly alone again. Once he was certain that he could speak without breaking into sobs, John carefully dialed Hamish's number and put the receiver to his ear. It rang once, twice, three times –

“Hello?” Oh, god. He couldn't do this. Hamish's voice was deep and rich, just like Sherlock's had been when he'd been younger. But he had to. Hamish needed to know.

“Hamish,” John said, grief evident in his voice.

“Papa? Is it Father?” the man asked.   
  
John hesitated, knowing he needed to bring himself to say the words that were just on the tip of his tongue, the ones that were like a razorblade tearing through his heart and soul.

“Yeah. Hamish, he's gone.”


End file.
